What Sense Is There In

With Infinite Life Comes An Infinite List Of Relatives. Grandparents Never Die, Nor Do Great Grandparents, Great-aunts…and So On, Back Through The Generations, All Alive And Offering Advice. Sons Never Escape From The Shadows Of Their Fathers. Nor Do Daughters Of Their Mothers. No One Ever Comes Into His Own…such Is The Cost Of Immortality. No Person Is Whole. No Person Is Free.

No One Knows The Nature Of God, Or Even If God Exists. In A Sense, All Of Our Religions Are Literary Works Of The Imagination.

In Our Constant Search For Meaning In This Baffling And Temporary Existence, Trapped As We Are Within Our Three Pounds Of Neurons, It Is Sometimes Hard To Tell What Is Real. We Often Invent What Isn't There. Or Ignore What Is. We Try To Impose Order, Both In Our Minds And In Our Conceptions Of External Reality. We Try To Connect. We Try To Find Truth. We Dream And We Hope. And Underneath All Of These Strivings, We Are Haunted By The Suspicion That What We See And Understand Of The World Is Only A Tiny Piece Of The Whole.

There Is A Place Where Time Stands Still ...illuminated By Only The Most Feeble Red Light, For Light Is Diminished To Almost Nothing At The Center Of Time, Its Vibrations Slowed To Echoes In Vast Canyons, Its Intensity Reduced To The Faint Glow Of Fireflies.

I Think What Gets You Through A Small Writing Project, Is Just One Burst Of Inspiration. A Book, Especially A Longer Book, It's A Different Kind Of Force That Pushes You Through It. It's A Vision Of The Whole Thing.